


Holy Mother Church

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Season 3, Whump, h/c, some h/c and whump because Matt Murdock, the title is not a swear word but it sounds like it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 15:33:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16432127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Matt is trying to find his place with the church after the events & revelations of season 3. More details would be spoilery for S3!





	Holy Mother Church

The church was always cool and quiet, the smells familiar and comforting. Sometimes, instead of going back home and putting ice on his bruises, he’d come here and put incense on his soul. It soothed, too.

He used to come with his father as a child, then with all of St Agnes’ kids. Then, he’d gone to college and tried to leave it all behind – being an orphan, being Jack Murdock’s son, being the motherless kid. Being so very Catholic. He hadn’t felt very comfortable with the priest there, the organ had been squeaky, the church had smelled wrong, and he’d thought – maybe he’d outgrown it. Maybe he wasn’t fated to be _that_ Matt Murdock.

He’d still read the Bible, he’d still prayed; he’d gone to mass a few times in different churches, confessed to a few different priests; but they didn’t know him and he didn’t know them and it was pointless. He couldn’t be really, entirely truthful. Faith had become a private, one-way conversation with God until his feet took him back to Father Lantom’s church in his early, not-quite-Daredevil-yet days and he felt more himself again than he’d had in years. He felt… known again. _Someone_ again, and not just anyone. He’d found he needed that, after all.

He was still trying to decide whether it was all a good thing or not.

Father Lantom had died here, had spilled his blood all over his white chasuble and the stone floor. Had asked him, with his dying breath, for forgiveness. Matt could still smell it, hear it. It echoed around the pillars and settled in his nose and every time he stepped inside, he remembered. He could still taste the lattes on his tongue, feel the holy host crumbling in his mouth and the down-to-earth words and the doors that were always open…

But Father Lantom was no more, and the new priest was nice but wasn’t _him_ and Matt felt a little bit lost. A lot lost. He sat on a pew at the back, rested his forearms on the wooden back of the one in front of him, and let his head hang forward. He wanted confession and he wanted absolution and he wanted communion, but he couldn’t be entirely truthful as long as he wasn’t sure he could trust the new priest in his bones and his blood – especially his blood. The thought made him smile bitterly.

And so he felt… adrift. Maybe it was a good thing, though. Maybe he didn’t deserve any of these things, because what he did under cover of night couldn’t really be what God wanted… or maybe it was. Jury was out on this one, and he didn’t know. How could he know? Sometimes it felt right, sometimes it felt like going against everything he’d read in the gospels.

He was tired. Nothing much had happened tonight – stopped a mugging, left a drug dealer tied to a metal fence near the precinct, got a Muslim woman away from a bunch of drunk, angry young men. They’d had baseball bats and knives and rage on their side, but Matt had too much experience by now to let that deter him. They got a few lucky hits, but Fatiha was home and safe now and it was all that mattered.

He was tired, tonight. Long lawyering days, long Daredeviling nights. Foggy and Karen tried to get him to slow down, but evictions and gun trafficking didn’t so why should he? He was being good now, he was balancing everything. He was fine. He’d be fine, after a few minutes’ break to get his breath back. Then he’d go home and sleep in his own bed, because he was a well-adjusted grown man who had his priorities straight now. He could imagine the swish of Karen’s hair on her blouse as she tossed her head and, probably, rolled her eyes at that. But he _was_ , he was trying hard not to repeat his mistakes and hurt them again. They deserved better from him, especially after all the shit he’d put them through.

 

“Wake up.” Something, someone jostled him out of peaceful oblivion. “Wake up, I can’t carry you all by myself.” The voice was familiar, sharp, no-shit-taken. Maybe a little tense?

“Mm,” he said.

“Matthew Michael Murdock, don’t you _dare_ – ”

He finally recognized the voice and got up, or tried to. A hand closed like a vice around his biceps and prevented him from falling from his – from not his bed. “Sister…?”

“You’re bleeding all over the back pew, Matthew.”

“Pew…?”

“You’re in the church. It’s six in the morning, you’re lucky no one else saw you.”

“Uh?” He tried to sit up again but found he wasn’t quite sure where up and down could be at the moment. He reached out a hand until he felt her. “I don’t…”

“Clearly. Can you stand?” She took the mask off and her fingers on his face were gentle. “You don’t look so good.”

“M’fine.”

“Sure.” She slipped under his arm and helped him up. She felt tiny and strong, and his eyes burned.

“I should get back home,” he mumbled. Shower, change, go to work.

“Not today you don’t.”

He let her guide him, because while he now knew that ‘down’ was under his feet the rest of the world was still fuzzier than it should be; all weird echoes and distorted smells and unmoored Matt Murdock.

After a time, some time, time he couldn't really quantify, something hit the back of his legs and he sat down. He started to fall sideways on what felt like a perfectly good mattress but she stopped him.

“Don’t,” she said. “First we’re going to get you out of these clothes, then… we’ll see.”

He frowned in what he thought was her direction, then pawed at his sweater. His hands felt clumsy, his fingers thick and stiff. There was a tiny noise like a kitten finding her bowl empty, and he realized it had come from him.

“Those ropes first, perhaps,” Sister Maggie said, and he let her pick at them and unravel them, unravel him. Cool air hit his skin, there was a sponge and water and then needle and thread and it hurt a little, there was the crinkling of a gauze pack being opened and sticky medical tape on his side and ice on his hands and the back of his head and where his chest hurt. Everything hurt now, really. Something poked at his lips and – oh, a straw. He sipped a little, it was cool and sweet and he’d been thirsty, then. He hadn’t realized.

“I used to patch up my dad,” he told the pillow.

“I know.” Soft cotton sheets, rough woolen blanket, the weight of a thick comforter on top. “When I got better, we talked, he and I. He was so very proud of you.” The weight of her settled by his bruised hip.

“You never came see me,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure he’d wanted to say it out loud.

“I thought I had no right to.” Her hand was heavy on his shoulder. “I thought it was better for you. I was wrong.”

Matt’s eyes burned but he kept them open for as long as he could. He knew they’d overflow as soon as he closed them. _Why? Why?_ The hand moved to his hair, checking for more bruises probably. It was probably gross with sweat. He remembered his dad’s hair after a fight. It hadn’t grossed him out, but he’d loved his dad, he _had_. So much. He’d abandoned him, though. It hadn’t been enough.

“Your hair’s fine, Matt.” A thumb swiped at the corner of his eyes. “We really didn’t do right by you, did we?”

_Mom_ , he wanted to say. He only, he always wanted to say it then, when he ended up under the church and her cool, dry hands stitched him up back together and her cool, dry words settled in the cracks of his sense of self.

“You should sleep. I’ll call your friends, let them know you’re taking the day off.”

_Mom_. His lips wanted to shape the word, push the syllable out. His pride refused.

“You’re so much like him.”

“He didn’t want me to be,” Matt murmured.

“He wanted you to be happy, but I…” Her weight shifted on the mattress. “He gave you his strength, his determination, his charm. He was very charming, you know. You’ve got his smile, you’re cocky and you’re stubborn and you never stay down. But I, I gave you…” Her fingers were very close to his, but not touching. “With hindsight, with what we know today, I’ve recognized the signs. My mother was depressive, my grandfather probably killed himself. My sister…” Her voice cut off, started up again. “Back then, it was all – pray harder. Work harder. We didn’t talk about it. I didn’t understand it until it hit.”

_It hit because I was born_ , Matt thought. Her fingers twitched next to his, the tiny vibrations through the mattress connecting her skin to his.

“This was my legacy to you: a family history that you’re paying the price for.”

“You left me.”

“I’d have hurt you more if I’d stayed.” The cotton under his cheek felt damp, and his throat was tight. _I just wanted,_ _I just needed._ He couldn’t finish the sentence, even in his own mind. “I know you miss Paul – Father Lantom, and I know you don’t trust Father Okoye yet. But you can’t bottle it all up, Matthew. It will eat you from the inside again, and your friends and I – we can’t see you go down that road again.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. He wasn’t sure what for exactly – there was too much to apologize for, again and again. He’d hurt people, he’d let others die, he’d been a shitty friend, his own dad had thought dying for his son was better than living. He clung to the belief he helped, too – but how could it be enough? He hunched in a little and the metal cross around his neck slid down to the crook of his neck.

“Matthew.” Her hand covered his at last. “Before Paul died, we’d started looking for doctors, therapists, people that could be trusted. Professionals. He was starting to feel his years, but he didn't want to leave you without help. The Church isn’t enough for you.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“No one said you were. But what’s crazy is thinking you should go it alone, and _that_ you’re guilty of.” Her words were harsh but her tone was – soft, teasing. “You’re your father’s son all right, Murdock.”

He squeezed the fingers in his harder than he should. “Mom,” he said.

He’d never heard that particular laugh from her before, full of tears and joy at the same time. It was even better to _feel_ it with his arms around her, head in the crook of her neck and puffs of her breath warming his back and his heart.

He slept like a baby.


End file.
